


Domestic Accomplishments

by theweepysurfer



Category: Kim Jong Kook - Fandom, KookSoo, Lee Kwang Soo - Fandom, Running Man RPF, Runningman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:17:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweepysurfer/pseuds/theweepysurfer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He makes sure that the room is warm and and the lamps have been lit. He moves quietly and efficiently through out the whole house. with something akin to confident certainty that comes with knowing someone as thoroughly as one knows one’s self." In which a certain Giraffe takes care of a certain tiger's needs. ONESHOT. Non smut. Just simple, happy fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic Accomplishments

AN: I really like fics which show snippets of Lee Kwang Soo's and Kim Jong Kook's life so I am attempting to write my own. Standard disclaimers apply.

KJKLKS

He inserts the old rusty spare keys and unlocks the front door with learned precision. There’s no light on the foyer and a pair of loafers has been haphazardly removed beside the door. The house is gloomy and still. He takes in all these little details with a slight frown on his face. 

Two unwashed half-full glasses of protein shakes and a sofa-full of unfolded clean laundry after and the young lanky man is almost close to shaking his head and folding his arms in disbelief. The subtle hints of disorder in the house of the man notoriously known for his obsession with order and cleanliness only points at tight filming schedules and nonstop shootings as the culprit.

He sets the bags of grocery on the kitchen top and starts to make a mental list of all the things he needs to get done. The sudden surge of domesticity allows a familiar warmth to seep in his chest and he starts to clean the small unwashed glasses and tidy up the kitchen before getting to work on dinner. By the time he’s removed the skin on the chicken fillet and the pot of dakkalbi stew is bubbling merrily on the stove top, a small silly grin has wormed its way into his lips. 

His mobile phone noisily buzzes against the glass table top and he scrambles to answer it while balancing a wooden ladle on the lid of the earthen pot. 

“Hyung.”

“Oh, Jigum Odi ya?”

He senses an almost undetectable hint of tiredness from the older man’s voice and he tries to keep the flare of worry from rising in his voice.

“Hyung, I made dinner.” Come home soon please.

There is a slight pause, and he imagines the muscular man absent mindedly scratching the wool on his knitted sweater—a habit which he knows that he’s picked up from him.

“Let’s hope this shoot wraps up soon.” I’m cold and tired and there’s nothing else I’d rather do than head home, so I will.

When the call ends, he releases a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding and runs a hand in his unruly curls. He knows that in the course of three years, the need to have formulated answers to formulaic questions has disappeared and they’ve begun to understand the other with even the fewest of words. This thought amuses and touches him at the same time.   
He makes sure that the rice is kept warm and that the tea is safely chilling in the fridge. On top of the sofa, he places the most favored old trusty jumper with questionable giraffe designs and sets the older man’s reading glasses on the coffee table beside the day’s newspaper knowing that no matter how late the night is, there is not a chance that news reading will be skipped. He moves quietly and efficiently through out the whole house, with something akin to confident certainty that comes with knowing someone as thoroughly as one knows one’s self. He makes sure the house is warm and the lamps have been lit, because certainly, certainly, there’s nothing worst in the world than coming back to a dark cold house after a day spent miserably in filming in Seoul’s biting winter, acting as if he’s the universe to a model he barely even knows. When he’s mentally ticked all the items in his mental to-do list, he gives the house a one last look-over before nodding to himself. 

He grabs his own unfinished book of Murakami’s IQ84 and heads to the bedroom. He knows that the drive from Seoul to Anyang-ju will take quite a long time and several sleepless nights spent restlessly waiting in frustration only to be rewarded with equally frustrated sermons have taught him to do otherwise. He settles comfortably against pillows and heated blankets, his long limbs dangling askew off the bed. There is a poor attempt to pore through the Japanese novel, but his mind is halfway across Seoul trying to imagine where the other is, and already halfway across the realm of sleep. A few pages, a few more, and still one more, and he is quietly dozing off.

KJKLKS

He is woken up when a familiar weight settles on the bed. The room is dark and he picks off the scent of barley tea; he is desperately trying to keep awake but it is a fight he is miserably losing. And by the time Kim Jong Kook, clad in his favored old trusty woolen jumper with questionable giraffe designs settles comfortably in his side of the bed and murmurs the giraffe’s name with equal parts love and equal parts gratitude punctuated with a light kiss on the forehead, Lee Kwang Soo has fallen back to sleep, the exhaustion in his limbs buffered by the happy contentment of domestic accomplishments.

 

~Fin  
Jigum Odi ya?- Where are you right now?


End file.
